The Last of the Real Ones
by bicyclesarecool
Summary: "The world today is content to call the Vigilante an alien, a cyborg, a military experiment gone wrong. But I know the truth." A superhuman avenger and an empty young woman meet in free fall. Nothing will ever be the same.
1. Chapter 1

**Aaaand I'm back. This story has been bouncing around in my head for about a year or so now and it's nice to finally get it **_**out**_**. **

**Inspired by the song "Last of the Real Ones" by Fall Out Boy, this is more of a drabble than anything. I can't promise regular updates, but I've written a lot of it already. **

**Onwards. **

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The first time I meet the Vigilante, his dark mask is covering all but his eyes. Vivid, literally _glowing _green and he's furious, his mouth in tight line when it's not open and yelling at me.

"What are you _doing_?" he's screaming, the wind rushing around us in a way that steals all the air from my lungs.

I can only stare at him, my eyes watering, my mouth so, so dry.

We're free falling from the top of the Cullen Building and when we hit the ground, he absorbs all the impact-he holds me closely to him, squeezing me so tightly I might break apart along with the sidewalk around us.

We'd interrupted each other, him on his way to serve some justice somewhere in this shithole city.

Me, well, I was supposed to make this fall alone.

People are screaming around us, their phones already out and filming this rare encounter with the Vigilante-the man who's stopped subway accidents and terrorist attacks and rescued people from burning buildings.

"Show's over," he barks at the growing crowd. He turns to me,still angry. "Come on."

There's a motorcycle on the street near us, he looks around, as if for a helmet, and mutters to himself when he doesn't find one, "fuck."

"You'll need to hold on," he says. "I like this bike, I don't want to wreck it trying to save you again."

I try to speak, but I can't. Not that I have anything to say.

His eyes soften a fraction and he sighs, getting on and waiting for me to join him. He tenses when I press myself to his back, my arms stretching to clasp around his chest.

I feel his heart hammering against my fists, so hard and so fast.

He takes turns too quickly, and I think he begins to realize that there's someone a little more breakable on this trip because he corrects it before long and we're gliding down the streets, weaving in and out of traffic. He's got a police scanner going, I can hear someone announcing an armed burglary in progress and he's looking at his fancy looking watch, already syncing locations on a GPS.

"Change of plans," he tells me as if I had any idea about what the original plans were at all.

He takes a sharp right and his tires squeal as we skid to a stop in front of All Saints Hospital.

"What are you-" are my first words to him. Garbled and scratchy and weak. "Why are we-"

He's pulling me off the bike, still checking his GPS.

"You jumped off a fucking building," he growls. "I'm having you admitted."

I try to wriggle from his grasp, I try to plant my feet, I even try to go limp.

He ends up carrying me like I'm a child throwing a tantrum. The nurse at the front desk looks up, alarmed, either because a girl is throwing an absolute fit or because the Vigilante is the one delivering her.

"You can't do this," I plead with him, trying to muster an angry facade to match his. "This is like, illegal."

His laugh is derisive as he turns to the nurse.

"I jumped after her from the top of the Cullen Building," he explains. "She's a danger to herself."

The nurse scrambles to stand, which alerts another nurse coming down the hall.

"I can't afford to be committed," I whisper to him, hating the flush climbing my neck.

He glances at his watch, hesitates for half a second and says, "don't worry about it."

He's nearly outside when I yell at him, "it would've just been easier to let me die!"

Over his shoulder, he smirks.

"Trust me, I know."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Wow thanks for reading!**

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I don't know how, but my stay at All Saints is completely covered.

It's a free week of being told I'm sick, that it's not my fault, that I need to develop better coping skills.

I sit in a circle and listen to everyone's sob stories and do all the necessary shit they expect from me.

This is my third time in one of these places. The third time I've tried to…end it. The first time, I'd swallowed a bottle of aspirin at my job stocking the grocery store. Threw up right there in the frozen food section. I was sixteen.

The second time was on my 21st birthday. A friend dragged me out to a bar, got me drunk, and ended up leaving me there. Some poor girl found me in the bathroom, slumped over in the handicap stall with my wrists open and bleeding all over the place. At the hospital, they kept asking me what I used to do it-they didn't find anything on me sharp enough. I'd shrugged. I didn't remember—still don't remember-but I think I flushed whatever it was down the toilet.

No one picks me up from All Saints. I walk the fifteen blocks home in the early morning three days later and take the stairs to my apartment slowly. It's a depressing square of a room, the walls a flat white. The only furniture is a mattress without a bedframe situated in one corner and it's the only evidence that someone lives here aside from the peanut butter and moldy bread sitting on the kitchen counter.

I sigh at the idea of going to the corner store, and settle for a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast, knowing that I need to eat something before I take my meds. I still have twenty minutes until I need to leave for work, so I take my time eating and changing into something presentable enough to take phone calls in an office all day for rich men who don't know my name.

Then it's time for meds. An antidepressant. An anti-anxiety. A beta blocker. A smattering of vitamins.

I take them at once, washing them down with a handful of water from my kitchen sink, relief working its way into my bones at the quieting of whatever it is that ripples under my skin at any given time. That thrumming of nerves, that itchy feeling of _wrongness_.

_Anxiety, _the doctors say to me now. _Psychosis?_ they'd whispered, confused, to my mother when I was small. _Psychosomatic_, they insist as a means to explain the violent migraines that threaten to swallow me whole so often that living becomes pain and fear and _hell_.

Hence the suicidal tendencies.

Hence, the medication.

My walk to my job at Cullen Industries is cold, the January wind biting through my threadbare jacket. I stand too long outside, gazing up at the spot where the tip of the skyscraper meets the clouds. I glance to my left, to the bit of sidewalk I would have gone _splat_ on if not for the Vigilante's meddling. Orange cones and yellow _caution_ tape surround the decimated concrete that forms a human shape.

I work on the 34th floor at a desk outside some VP of Something's office. Mr. Cheney hardly gets any calls I have to field except for ones from his wife, Angela, and his mistress, Ashley. It's very easy to mix them up.

"You're late," The receptionist for the President of Something, Jessica, snaps, the lights on my call panel blinking red with alarming frequency. She's a little older than me, already in her thirties and I think she's getting permanent frown lines around her mouth just by working near me.

I don't bother apologizing.

Not that there's anything to say sorry to her about. Except for maybe my whole being-alive-thing. My mere existence seems to irritate her. Probably because I'm a shitty receptionist. The Angela-Ashley thing is the only reason Cheney hasn't fired me. Too much blackmail material.

The morning is slow, after I deal with calls from salespeople and other Very Important People from other Very Important Companies, I play solitaire on my computer and count down the minutes until lunch.

That's the best part of working for Cullen Industries-free lunch every day. If I didn't have this gig I'd be living on peanut butter and stale bread exclusively.

The highlight of lunch, aside from the salad bar, would be the daily appearance of Edward Cullen in the cafeteria.

He doesn't eat with us, though why would he? His time is spent talking to the people who work under him. He's a multi-billionaire and the most beautiful man I've ever seen so all the girls do is titter over him. He's endlessly charming, though I can tell it's tiring for him to be so _on_ all the time. He's all sensual smirks with his unfairly full lips and smoldering jade eyes.

But I can see right through him.

He's a fraud. There's nothing sincere in his smile. There's no conviction in his voice. He's playing a part. Just like the rest of us.

So, I watch him every day as he makes his way through the mass of tables full of his employees, waiting for the inevitable moment that he _snaps_.

Because everybody is just on the verge of breaking-even him.

Today, he hesitates in front of my table. For the first time ever, his eyes meet mine and there's something like recognition there. He frowns, not bothering to try to charm me and it's disappointing as he moves quickly onto the next table of beautiful saleswomen batting their long eyelashes at is returning grin.

My cheeks flame, that feeling under my skin flaring with heat and I know that if I don't get out of here right now I might do something stupid like cry.

I splash cold water on my face when I get to the bathroom, my lunch half eaten in a trash can outside and I make myself look at my sorry reflection.

Too pale, too thin, too messy. My hair is a wreck, pulled into a limp, tangled ponytail, my so-dark-brown-they're-almost-black eyes are underlined with the bruise-like coloring that comes with exhaustion. My lips and hands are chapped from the cold weather.

I know I look bad. I've always known it. But seeing Edward Cullen look at me with such..._disdain_ stings.

Plus, there's a headache building behind my eyes.

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	3. Chapter 3

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I stop at the library on my way home from work, the librarian waving me over when she spots me.

Alice is nice, if not a little exuberant. She's my age and I vaguely remember her from some of my undergrad classes-just the gen ed requirements freshmen take before they decide to drop out.

Like me.

"Hey, Bella! Your books are in. Interesting picks. It's a cool story, but I'm more of a civil war romance kind of gal myself."

I nod, examining the books she's extending to me. _A Brief History of the Real Ones._ _The Age of Old Reality._ _Real Ones: The Great Hoax?_

"You gonna take them and go or hang around for a bit? I've got a spinach salad for dinner that I'm never going to finish. My husband acts like just because I'm pregnant, I could eat enough for a small army."

As tempting as the food is, I admit that I have a headache and I'll probably just go home and go to bed.

Alice's brow wrinkles in concern, but she doesn't say anything as she checks my books out and offers a friendly, "feel better!"

The books are dusty, older editions than the last titles I checked out, but the new ones don't have as much information.

They're all like, "The Real Ones used to rule our world but the humans got mad and hunted them to extinction. The end. Don't you have anything better to do?"

The books I checked out tonight though, especially _The Age of Old Reality_, seem to actually have some substantial information.

Which is exactly what I need.

Because I think that the Vigilante is a Real One.

The _last_ One.

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Back in the beginning, once evolution took hold of our ancient ancestors, there were humans and then there were the Real Ones. An ancient race of beings that were _more _than human. They lived long, so long that some called them immortal. Invincible, even. There are accounts of them fighting in old wars and walking through enemy fire, unfazed. Some books say that they were more animal than human, driven by instinct and emotion, while others paint them as scholars, so brilliant that all of early invention was thanks to them.

The Real Ones harnessed fire while the humans were like, poking each other with sticks or whatever it was cavemen did.

Witch hunts and religious persecution took place in tandem with the culling of the Real Ones from our world, and overlap was surely happening. Humankind was jealous, angry, suffering from shit like the plague while Real Ones prospered, taking land recently vacated by the diseased. It was problematic, sure, but who else was going to grow crops as entire cities were dying?

I think people just want someone to hate.

Anyone different and strange from them.

Call it fear, call it jealousy, call it whatever you want-but by the time the Age of Enlightenment ended, so did the Age of Reality.

It turns out, the Real Ones weren't invincible. If you could behead them and then burn them, they were gone.

Poof.

Dust.

The world was content to forget them, to gloss over that part of our history, painting those great minds and beings as humans, taking over the narrative.

It's left to conspiracy theorists now to keep the memory of them alive.

Today everyone is happy to call the Vigilante an alien, a cyborg, a military experiment gone wrong.

But I know the truth.

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**thanks for reading! and big thanks to LayAtHomeMom for mentioning this in her latest chapter for _Beneath the Branches_-if you haven't checked that out yet-GO GO GO! It's amazing. **


	4. Chapter 4

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The pounding in my head has a rhythm, a voice. _Up, _it says. _Out_. _Up, Out, Up, Up, Up. _

It was how I ended up on the roof of the Cullen Building the first time, and how I've ended up there again.

Sometimes if I do what the pounding wants, it lessens.

_Delusional_, the doctors say.

It's barely dark, and I'm technically still on the clock but Cheney left early to meet his mistress for dinner and isn't taking any calls. His wife thinks he's going out with colleagues.

It's so fucking cold, but the air is clearing my head and slowing the racing, nervous feeling in my blood.

I watch the city below me, rush hour traffic casting the street in red lights and creating a cacophony of horns. I've thought about moving to the country or something cliché like that but what would I even _do _there.

What do I even do _here_? My life is just...nothing. I work. I go to the library. I sleep. I don't have any friends. No family to tie me anywhere. No will to do _anything_.

I take a steadying breath, the headache is slowly dissipating and maybe I'll get some reading done tonight.

"You're not going to jump again, are you?" a voice says from behind me. "My back still hurts from the last time."

There's no feeling of surprise at seeing him here. Maybe I knew he'd be here all along.

"No, it obviously wasn't successful the first time. Live and learn, I guess. Ha. Live."

He stares at me, his eyes unnaturally bright in the growing darkness.

"That's fucked up," he says finally. "Really fucked up."

I shrug, avoiding his burning gaze, and trying to calm my racing heart. He's so close to me.

_Not close enough_, the pounding says. Quieter now, but insistent.

"So, what are you doing up here, then?" he asks.

"Nothing. Getting some air. Are you off to save the world?"

He scoffs, his expression hidden under his mask. As if on cue, his watch starts beeping. He glances at it, then at me.

"I have to go, but I'm worried you're going to end up a puddle on the sidewalk if I leave you up here."

"I already told you I wasn't going to jump." _Why does he even care?_

He hesitates, but nods before he pitches himself off the ledge, landing on the roof of the next building, and then the next.

I watch him until he disappears, vanishing into the night.

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I think Alice brings extra dinner to her shifts at the library on purpose, just so she can offer me some and then watch me eat. I'm devouring a taco bowl as she talks about this mean girl in her Lamaze class, leaning back in her swivel chair. We're in the staff area, though it's late enough that there isn't really anyone else there to complain about my presence.

She asks me a few questions about the books I'm reading, but mostly she talks and talks, which is what I prefer anyways. Alice has a good life. A loving husband, a baby on the way, a home. She has hobbies she enjoys and is, by all accounts, mentally stable. Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm Alice. It's a nice little daydream, but it feels false, like its not only something that I'll never have, but also something I don't think I really want.

It's completely dark out as I start my walk home and I might feel nervous if I wasn't so apathetic about the whole dying thing.

The Vigilante is by my side by the next block.

"This is a bad part of town," he tells me as if I didn't already know that. "You really _don't_ have any regard for your safety."

"Nope," I say, popping the _p_. "Am I in danger? Is that why you're here?"

"Not in any immediate danger, I suppose," he admits.

"Then what are you doing?" My words come out harsher than I intend, and he slows his steps to a stop.

"I…" he trails off as if he has no idea how he ended up here. I wish he wasn't wearing that stupid mask.

"I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay. Confirm that you weren't, you know, dead," he says casually.

"Do you follow up like this with every person you've rescued?" My voice is almost teasing. Almost flirty. I take a step towards him.

He purses his lips, eyes narrowed.

"Is this how you thank people who help you?" he counters, continuing to walk again.

"I sent flowers to the doctor who pumped my stomach once," I joke. Technically the guidance counselor at school sent them to me, and I had to leave them in my room when I was sent to the psych ward.

"Jesus Christ," he hisses. "Why are you _so _insistent on dying?"

I don't answer him right away, unsure of what to say. How do I explain to this absolute stranger my entire personal history?

_Not a stranger_, that little voice says. I ignore it. I mostly ignore the Vigilante's question, too, and shrugging is my only response. It's my signature avoidance technique.

We don't speak again, but he walks with me all the way back to my apartment, standing near the street with his arms crossed until I get inside. When I turn back for one more look, he's gone.

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	5. Chapter 5

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"He's really in a meeting?" Angela whines for like the millionth time. For once, I'm telling the truth when I assure her that he's video conferencing with someone and can't take her phone calls.

"Can I take a message?" I prompt, trying to get her off the phone. My head is killing me, my skull feeling like it's going to crack apart from all the pressure building behind my eyes.

"I guess. Just remind him that we have reservations at La Table tonight with my parents. Actually, don't say the part about my parents-I don't want him to come up with an excuse to miss it. Again."

As I'm jotting the message down onto a sticky note, Edward Cullen has appeared beyond the open elevator doors to our floor. He steps out, running a hand through his dark, coppery hair that seems a bit too messy to be done on purpose and he's smiling at Jessica as she rushes to greet him, smoothing her pencil skirt as she goes.

I hang up on Angela without saying goodbye, too busy observing this rare occurrence to care about niceties. People try to stop him to chat, but he brushes them off-albeit politely-and keeps walking.

Towards me.

His eyes dart to the nameplate on my desk, _Bella Swan_, and I see his lips move-barely, but enough to notice that he's trying my name out on his tongue.

The wave of pleasure that rolls through me is a little jarring.

"How can I help you, Mr. Cullen?" I say in my fake professional receptionist voice. His lips twitch.

"Is Ben busy? I've got a question for him."

I glance at Cheney's door. "He's meeting with someone but I'm sure he wouldn't mind the interruption."

"Oh, no, that's okay. It's not urgent."

"Want me to let him know you stopped by?" I cringe by the end of my response, a sharp pain hitting me behind the eye.

"Are you alright?" he asks, brows furrowing in concern. I resist the urge to press my palms into my eyes.

"Yes, sorry, just a headache."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he says softly. "I'll shoot Ben an email. Feel better."

_Wait wait wait wait wait_, the headache pounds, but I'm too dumbfounded by the fact that he's spoken to me to move.

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I spend the weekend in bed, treating myself to microwavable rice that I dress up with cold stir-fry sauce and reading through the Real Ones books.

_There has been talk that the Real Ones went into hiding, that some of them may still be living among us, though unlikely. Some of us may have Real One DNA, born of halflings generations and generations ago, but the genes are so diluted at this point that you would have more in common with a rock than a Real One. _

"Depressing," I mutter aloud to myself. I look at the black and white illustrations on the next page, the way that the Real Ones seem to glow with an aura. It's like a shadow, threatening to take over the form it surrounds.

I think of the Vigilante's green eyes as I fall asleep.

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I force myself to leave my apartment on Sunday evening. My skin's crawling, my blood's boiling, but for once, my head isn't on the verge of exploding. I walk, feeling the rare winter sun on my face.

I go to the corner store to stock up on bread and peanut butter and end up getting distracted by a display of nail polish. I look down at my nails, bitten to the quick, their edges jagged. I haven't had my nails painted since I was little.

_A pretty pink for a pretty girl, _mom had said. I grinned, six years old and missing too many teeth. It was for my first day of school. Well, my first day at _that_ school. I was kicked out of kindergarten the year before at my assigned school for "causing a disturbance."

To this day, I can't remember a single detail about that incident, except that the following morning was the first time I was seen by a doctor who wasn't my pediatrician.

I grab a bottle of polish named _Pinktini_ and roll it in my hands, contemplating the color with a frown.

I buy it, along with my food, and I leave it on my windowsill.

It starts to gather dust.

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	6. Chapter 6

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The Vigilante is not thrown at all by my appearance on the roof of the Cullen Building two days later. He's staring out at the city below, his mask on and eyes burning bright.

"Hey," I say and instantly feel stupid. _Hey? What am I, fourteen? _ He turns to me, blinking once, one corner of his mouth pulling upwards slightly, almost as if he can't help it.

I wonder what his real, full smile looks like.

"Put yourself in any dangerously stupid situations recently?" he asks.

"No, but it's still early. Kicked any ass tonight?"

"Not yet." Another twitch of his lips.

We fall into silence for a long enough span of time that it becomes strange for me to keep staring at him. He's purposely avoiding looking back at me.

"Why do you come up _here_?" My question is almost lost in the wind. "I mean, I work here, I have an excuse."

"It's the tallest building in the city," he replies. "I can see everything from this spot."

"Everything looks so small from up here. The people all look like ants."

"I have better eyes than you," he points out. They flare brighter for a moment as if emphasizing his point.

"Yes, you do." My voice isn't casual anymore. Nothing about me is casual, because his eyes haunt my dreams and my headaches and the sound of his voice crashes over me in a feeling of _rightness_ whenever he speaks.

He swallows hard before he says, "I have to go," and jumps from the ledge in front of him.

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My first crush was a boy named Jake. We were in the same 7th grade science class and he got assigned to be my lab partner. He was nice to me, which was reason enough to like him because everyone else pretty much pretended I didn't exist. But he always said hello to me in the halls and made small talk with me while we dissected fish. He was tall, the tallest boy in our grade and played the guitar.

I used to daydream about him in class, after school, before bed, at dinner, so often that my mom started calling that moon look I'd get my Jake-Face.

_Wipe off that Jake-Face and eat something, _she'd say, pretending to be annoyed. I think she was just relieved that there was something _normal _about me to latch onto. A tween girl with a crush on a boy.

But then he moved at the end of the school year and I mostly forgot about him. I think he lives in California now, working for a tech start-up but that's just based on a little bit of Googling.

I try to see if by looking him up, I'll feel those butterflies again. The little new-crush ones that flap around your stomach and make it hard to eat or sleep or breathe.

But there's nothing.

And I think I have a crush on the Vigilante.

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Edward Cullen is sitting at my usual lunch table.

I veer to find another place to eat but he says, "wait."

I flush at his voice.

"I didn't mean to chase you away, I thought maybe we could talk."

"Why would _we _do _that_?" I ask warily. _Is he going to fire me?_

I feel a little bad because he looks mildly uncomfortable, so I take a seat across from him. The lunch room is full already and every single person falls silent for a split second at the sight of us before they resume their chatter, no doubt speculating why _Edward Fucking_ _Cullen_ is sitting with a lowly secretary.

"So…" I prompt, pouring dressing on my salad.

"How are you?" he asks, his voice warm. He seems genuinely interested in my answer.

"Good...how are you?"

This is beyond weird.

"I'm fine, Bella."

The shock of him saying my name strikes my gut like a bolt of lightning and my heart is thundering so hard I'm afraid he can hear it across the table.

"Okay but really. Why are you here?" One corner of his mouth turns up. If he smiles at me, I will probably die on the spot.

"I think it's important to get to know my employees. You _are_ one of my employees, correct?"

I nod. "What do you want to know?"

"How long have you worked for Ben?" he asks, resting his chin in his palm.

"Um, I don't know. A year or so?"

"And before that?"

"I was at a school, but funding got cut and so did my receptionist position in the office."

"That's a shame. The way we treat education in this country is pathetic."

"Totally," I agree lamely, dragging my fork through a clump of lettuce.

"Have you lived in this area long?" His lack of segue only seems to draw more attention to the fact that this whole thing is totally awkward.

"This feels like an interrogation," I mutter. "But yes, my whole life."

A small smile twists its way onto his lips. It rattles me to my core.

"I don't mean for it to feel that way. I'm just...curious."

"I'm really not that interesting," I sigh. He raises his eyebrows.

"I disagree," Edward Cullen insists. "I think you're far more interesting than you let on."

The intensity of his stare is enough to make me burn.

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	7. Chapter 7

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"Where are you off to tonight?" I ask, pulling my coat tighter around myself. The Vigilante is staring at his smartwatch but glances up at me at my question.

"Right now, it seems that there's a robbery in progress three blocks from here. After that, wherever the night takes me."

"Do you ever get tired of doing this? Of saving people?"

"I feel tired physically, you know? But I want to help people. I'm lucky enough that I _can_."

I nod, pursing my lips.

"I'm not sure we deserve it." Humans of this city. Humans in general.

"Some do. _You_ do. And that's enough for me."

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The Vigilante's words ring in my headaches for days. He's helping people because he can. Can I help people, too? Should I?

I start small, avoiding people and opting for dogs and cats instead. There's an animal shelter a couple of blocks from my apartment and they're happy for my help. Even though I'm cleaning up shit more often than not, every time a tail wags, I _feel_ _good_.

It's been so long since I've really felt anything.

Maybe this is the _purpose _I've been looking for.

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I get mugged two weeks later while I'm walking home from petting cats. Meanwhile the Vigilante races to save orphans or something saintly like that.

The girl who blocks my path on the sidewalk is a lot taller than me and definitely on _something_, but I don't know what. She demands all my money, my phone, my _coat_. I hand over twenty dollars, but she's insistent on more.

"I don't have any more money," I try to explain. "I only carry a little bit of cash. Look at this jacket, do I _look_ like I'm rolling in it?"

She swipes a hand out, jabbing me hard in the stomach. The air leaves my body as I double over, clutching where she's hit me.

"Go to the fucking ATM or something, bitch."

"Fuck off," I snap.

It's the wrong thing to say.

I'm too busy holding onto my middle to block the blow she delivers to my face. I taste blood in my mouth, her fist forcing my lips against my teeth before she pulls it back to hit me one more time on the cheek.

"Bitch," she says again, stepping around me and continuing on her way, as if nothing has happened.

As if I'm not spitting blood onto the sidewalk.

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"What _happened_?" The way his eyes flare cracks something open in me, and when his fingers make gentle contact with the bruise on my cheek, that feeling threatens to swallow me whole.

My head, my heart, my everything is crying out for _more more more._

I can't stop staring at the Vigilante's mouth as he leans closer, examining my cracked and swollen lips.

The urge to kiss him is all consuming.

"Some girl tried to rob me," I whisper, afraid to speak louder than that because of his nearness. "I didn't have enough money for her."

"Christ," he breathes.

"It's really not that bad."

"If danger's out there, you'll find it."

"That's kind of blaming the victim, isn't it? I was just walking home from the animal shelter, minding my own damn business."

"Adopting a pet?"

"No, I volunteer there."

"You _do_?"

"You inspired me."

"What?" he scoffs, taking a step away from me.

"You know, to help," I add, fighting the instinct to close that distance put between us. "Like you do."

He lets out a ragged breath.

"Bella," he sighs, and it doesn't even occur to me to ask how he knows my name.

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	8. Chapter 8

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I hate going to the doctor.

So much.

I hate sitting on the crinkly paper and waiting. Endless, miserable waiting.

"My headaches are worse," I tell Dr. Clearwater when she finally gets around to my room. "The meds just aren't working. They've never worked."

She frowns. I've only been seeing her for a year, since my last physician unexpectedly passed away. I had seen Dr. Marks regularly since I was twelve.

"I have a proposal," she says. "It might seem crazy, but hear me out."

I wait for her to go on.

"What if we start from scratch? You go off of everything and we experiment with what works and what doesn't. You've been medicated almost your whole life, Bella. Thirteen year old you was a different person than who you are now. Not just, you know, mentally but physically as well."

She's met with silence and then my soft, "no meds? At all?"

"Just for a few weeks, to get them out of your system. But I want to call me and check in every day. If you're feeling at all suicidal-go straight to the hospital. But this could be the first step in the right direction, Bella. There's a light at the end of the tunnel."

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Going off of the antidepressants is the hardest. I'm nauseous and tired and cry at everything. I can feel my teeth practically vibrating as I walk without the anti-anxiety pills.

But things are clearer. Actually, literally _clearer_. It's like I've been in a fog my whole life and now it's starting to lift. Things feel differently, more real.

I grow to realize that maybe the meds were giving me that empty, numb feeling. Despite the physical side effects, I feel like I can breathe again.

"You seem different," Edward Cullen says to me at lunch. He's at my table again, eating a turkey sandwich and watching me far too closely.

People keep stopping by, trying to talk to him, but he just smiles and waves them off.

He only talks to me.

"I feel different," I tell him. There's a glow about me-color in my cheeks for once and a sheen to my hair.

He looks at me, skepticism warring with something warm in his eyes.

"You know what I realized?" I say, changing the subject. "I don't know anything about you."

"You know plenty about me," he replies. "My entire life is in print and online."

"That's not what I mean. None of that's real."

His eyes bulge. "I can assure you that it is."

"I mean, sure you run this company and blah, blah, blah but it's not...the only part of you."

"Maybe it's the best part of me. The biggest part of me. "

"Bullshit."

He frowns and looks away.

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Edward Cullen is 29 years old.

His money is inherited, as is his company, having taken over for his father, who was killed in a car accident, along with Mrs. Cullen, right before his high school graduation. Run by the Board of Trustees while he was away at Harvard, he was officially named CEO two days after his 22nd birthday.

He's known for his philanthropy and his penchant for fast cars.

He is seen with a beautiful, statuesque blonde woman at many of the events he attends. Her name is Rosalie Hale and they've been best friends their entire lives, having run in the same social circles since they were in diapers. I've seen her occasionally at lunch-she works on a higher floor with the other lawyers.

Though rumors constantly circulate regarding their relationship status, they are unwavering in their insistence that they have not and will not ever be an item.

There are so many pictures of him, so many snapshots of him in suits and tuxedos and casually elegant jeans and other than Rosalie Hale, he is always _alone_. Surrounded by people, but never _with_ anyone. There's something about the emptiness in his eyes, even when he's smiling, that calls to me.

I see myself there.

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	9. Chapter 9

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My head is pounding again—for the first time since I started weaning myself off my meds-pushing me outside, begging for me to get down the street, all urgent thrumming and _pain pain pain_.

The Vigilante is leaning against the wall of an alley two blocks from my apartment and his breathing is shallow.

"Are you okay?" I ask him and when he turns to me, there's blood leaking from his mouth.

He gasps, reaching for me and his voice is raw when he tells me, "you need to leave. Go home. Now."

Hell no.

"You're hurt."

He groans, pressing his hand to his side. In the dim glow of the streetlamp above, I can see blood flowing through his fingers. He staggers, his free hand grabbing my arm to steady himself.

"I can call 911," I say, panic starting to bubble inside me. "Let me help you."

"No-no hospitals. I just need…"

"I live around the corner, come on."

He hesitates, but he leans on me as we make our way down the block. His blood is soaking through my shirt with every step.

I make him sit on the toilet in my bathroom, the only room that has bright lighting, so I can examine the wound. I reach for his mask, but he stops me with a firm grip on my hand.

"No. There's nothing wrong with my face." He pulls his shirt off, wincing and crying out as he tugs it away from the wound.

Which appears to be from a gunshot.

And is super, _super_ gross.

"Shit," I hiss.

"The bullet-the bullet needs to come out."

"Fucking hell."

"Can you see it?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"I can barely see _anything _through all this blood."

"Do you have tweezers or something? Fuck, I need to get it out." His voice is growing more frantic with every word.

I throw open the medicine cabinet and find a pair that are kind of rusty and definitely not sterile.

"It's fine," he pants. "Just hand them over."

With horror, I watch him plunge them into his side, clenching his teeth. I feel like I'm going to throw up, so I say, "I'm going to find a towel or something."

I splash my face with cold water in the kitchen and start washing my hands off in the sink, watching his blood circle the drain. I have some dingy towels sitting by the sink but they're relatively clean. I soak one in water before I make my way back to the bathroom.

The Vigilante is holding the bullet that pierced his side, examining it with pained eyes, blood coating everything in the room.

"I have...towels," I mutter uselessly. "Should I...clean you up? You can use the shower if you need to, I don't really know standard protocol for gunshot wounds."

He shoots me an exhausted smirk, taking one of the towels from me and dabbing gently at his skin. I use another to wipe up the floor and sink.

"I'm so sorry for bleeding all over everything." His eyes are fighting to stay open. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute, I just need to catch my breath."

"Are you insane? Just, go lay down. There's a bed in the other room."

"I can't-"

"I'm not arguing. You won't let me call for help, so please just do this."

I think he's too tired to fight me on it, because he stumbles out of the room with me following, a bath towel ready to wrap around his middle. I make him lay on it before I tie each end tightly together over the spot where the bleeding is heaviest.

"Please don't die in my bed. I can't afford a new one."

His soft laugh is the last sound he makes before drifting to sleep.

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It takes almost an hour to get the bathroom clean, the trashcan full of red-stained towels by the end. I take a shower, the dried blood stuck to my skin is starting to itch.

It's almost midnight when I check under the towel to make sure the bleeding has stopping-or at least slowed-but all I find is pink, freshly scarred skin.

I gasp aloud, but he doesn't even stir, even when I reach for the book on the floor behind his head.

When I'm not reading, my eyes are drawn to him, to the steady rise and fall of his chest. I want to remove his mask. I want to wake him up and ask him a million questions. I want to curl up into his side and feel the warmth of him next to me.

I want to know why this thing between us exists. This pull.

I try to focus on the book.

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_In terms of invincibility, records have shown us that such a claim isn't entirely accurate. We've read accounts of Real Ones dying by decapitation and by fire, usually done in conjunction with each other. It seems that their healing capabilities border on supernaturally fast. However, it has been noted that certain metals are toxic and therefore impede their healing process. _

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I'm reading when he wakes with a start, eyes wide and panting as he tugs at the towel pats at his new scar.

"Seems to have healed up nicely," I say, wide eyed. He falls back against the mattress with a frustrated sigh.

"I shouldn't have come here," he mutters, glancing around at my empty walls and lack of furniture.

"Bleeding out in the street sounds like a better alternative?" I snap, closing my book with a satisfying slam.

"What are you reading?" he asks, ignoring my jab altogether. I throw the book to him and he pales when he sees the cover.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you have this?"

"Research."

"On?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "_You_."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he hisses, dropping the book on the mattress beside him as he gets to his feet. "You're completely out of your mind."

I can tell he's going to leave, he's about to walk out that door and find a new tall building to brood on and leave me all _alone_.

I move to block him, trying to fill the door frame with my body as I tell him, "I might be insane but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Come _on_, I'm not fucking blind. Just because everyone is happy to think you fell into a vat of toxic waste or something doesn't mean that I am. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"No one would believe you, anyway," he says softly, pushing past me and closing the door behind him.

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	10. Chapter 10

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My mother didn't believe me when I was seven and said I was on fire. Not real fire, more like...an encompassing cloud of night that burned and burned around me. I could feel the heat, could smell smoke. I was in pain. I'd woken her up in the middle of the night screaming for help. I think it had vanished before she reached me.

The doctors who checked me over didn't believe me either,

That was when they put me on the anti-anxiety pills.

"I'm sorry this is happening to you, baby," my mother had said the next night, stroking my hair as I cried into her side.

"I'm broken," I'd sobbed. "I'm crazy and wrong and I hate taking pills. The pills make me feel _bad_."

"They'll help. I promise, you just have to let them start working. There's nothing broken in you. You're just different, you have to work a little harder than the rest of us. You're tougher than the rest of us."

"I'm not tough," I'd said, wiping snot on my sleeve.

"You are. You'll see, everything will be okay."

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Of course, it wasn't.

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Something in me clicks when I see Edward Cullen two days later. It's the way he's standing, arms crossed and surveying the spread of cubicles on the 34th floor.

Like he's looking from the top of the world down at people the size of ants.

I drop the folder I'm holding, pages of notes from the meeting Cheney has just had with a team of salesmen. Papers go everywhere and Jessica hisses at me to, "get it together."

His eyes dart to me as I scramble to clean up the mess, hands shaking and a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck.

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I walk past him on my way to lunch, bypassing the cafeteria and saying, "I'm going for a walk."

It takes a minute for him to realize I want him to follow me, but he catches up by the time I reach the elevator. We spend the descent in separate corners, an IT guy between us using the time in which the owner of the company is trapped next to him to discuss the outdated desktop computers in his department. Edward Cullen nods and promises to make changes the entire ride down.

Meanwhile, my heart is racing and my palms are sweaty and I'm doing my best to not look at him.

When we're finally outside, I take in a breath, thankful for the brisk temperature for once, and start walking down the sidewalk while he tries to give the IT guy the slip.

I'm turning onto the next block when he reaches me again, keeping pace silently as I lead us down an alley.

"Are you going to mug me?" he jokes as I turn to face him. His smile fades at the sight of my expression.

"I know."

"You know what?"

"I _know_."

He pales, but says nothing.

That's all the confirmation I need.

I reach for him and he flinches when my hand makes contact with his cheek. I exhale a shaky breath, warmth flooding me and electricity buzzing in my veins. All those nights of wanting to know what was under that stupid mask…

His hand covers mine, his palm is calloused and his grip is impossibly gentle. His eyes flash that bright jade color I've grown to crave and I feel as if I could glow, too.

Words become unimportant as his other hand moves to brush a lock of hair out of my eyes, his fingers trailing down the side of my neck. I shudder at the touch.

"Things would be easier if we'd never met," he murmurs and I still, heat creeping along my cheeks. He starts to backtrack. "You can't-it's not-there are people out there, Bella, who would hurt you because of what you know now. You're the only one who knows and you're just...the only one." His voice cracks at the end.

"I don't care," I say, taking a step back. "I like you. Not just a silly crush but what you are, it's like it _calls_ to me."

"I...you...we should get back to work," he murmurs.

And so, we do.

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_ The lore of soulmates is known across a variety of cultural histories (the red thread of fate in the east, Plato's _Symposium_ in the west, among others), though it is thought that those stories come from the Real Ones. As certain species of animals do, Real Ones mate for life. Writings, either through essays or letters, show us that there is an instance in a Real One's life when they come across their singular mate-a feeling of wholeness, a magnetic pull, almost as if their souls have spent eternity reaching for each other and as they finally meet, there is a shift within them. Some say the feeling is like a strike of lightning, others have described it as a wave of warmth crashing over them. No matter how it happens, sources agree that it changes _everything_ for them._

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	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you all so much for your reviews and alerts and favorites of this—I'm having such a blast writing it and I savor every single one of your reactions. **

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I wander the city on the first Saturday of March, trying not to look for the Vigilante-_Edward_-and I find myself in a nice part of town, a little residential street. The trees will probably bud soon if the weather stays mild and kids have taken over the street itself for a soccer game. They're laughing and trash-talking each other and it makes me smile.

"What are you doing?" A voice asks, hot breath on my neck.

"Taking a walk," I say casually, turning to face him. "Got distracted. Did you ever do this when you were a kid?"

He laughs and says, "what, play outside? Yes, often."

He's a different person than I've known him to be now. No fancy suit he wears to work as Edward Cullen and no mask to cover his identity as the Vigilante. He's in an olive green sweater and a pair of worn jeans, his hair in his eyes and he seems lighter than he usually does. As if he, for right now, has nothing weighing on his shoulders.

"I liked being outside," I tell him. "We didn't have a yard or anything when I was growing up but I liked to take walks. Didn't really play with any other kids, though."

"Why not?"

"I think they were all afraid of me."

His eyebrows raise as he considers this.

"I was an unstable kid," I explain. "I had a lot of outbursts."

"About what?"

I shrug and say, "hell if I remember. That's just what my mom and the doctors always said."

He nods, glancing again at the game going on ahead of us.

"How do we keep finding each other?" I ask when the silence overtakes us. "How did you know I'd be here?"

He smirks and says, "I didn't. I live on this block and was on my way back from a meeting."

My cheeks flame, hating the way my assumption sounds. As if he seeks me out the way I do with him. I feel his eyes on me, his stare tracing the slope of my nose and the curve of my lips.

I have so many things I want to say to him, to ask him, but more than anything, I want to touch him. I can't stop thinking about his hand covering mine as we stood together in that alley.

I can't think of anything but him.

And I'm growing to realize that I'm not just curious about him because he's a Real One and a hero and such an important man at my job—but something basic and instinctual in me _craves_ his nearness. He feels familiar and mysterious all at once.

My mind keeps going back to the reading I've been doing, about Real Ones and soulmates and something in my cracks a little bit more every time I remember that I'll never be _his_.

The books say that _no known accounts exist of Real Ones mating with humans. It is something that must go both ways—like calls to like. Humans do not have the same capacity for those kinds of instincts._

"Have you eaten?" he asks, running a hand through his hair. I can see the conflict in his eyes when he adds, "I was going to make some food, if you want to join me?"

"Do you _want_ me to join you?" I counter.

"Of course I _want _you to," he replies, brow crinkling. "But I know I shouldn't."

"Because you're _you_? And I'm..._this_?" I look away, back to the soccer game.

"If by _this_ you mean infinitely more breakable than I am and therefore every second we spend together potentially endangers your life, then yes."

"You wouldn't hurt me," I tell him softly and I feel his fingers under my chin, lifting my eyes to meet his.

"I could never hurt you," he says earnestly, eyes flaring, just a little. "Like I said before, there are people out there who would do terrible things to you because of what you mean to me."

My heart is pounding hard against my ribs, his face is so close to mine. If I angle my head up slightly and he bends a little nearer, our lips…

"What exactly do I mean to you?" My voice is barely a whisper.

His expression softens and he only says, "let's get some food."

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Edward's house is not at all like I'm expecting it to be (brooding mansion with terribly ornate light fixtures and security guards standing at every doorway), and instead it's _cozy_. The floors are covered in worn rugs and the walls are covered in simply framed art prints. All of his furniture looks well-used and the entire space is a lot smaller than I anticipated. I do watch him enter a code on a keypad by the front door, which confirms a security system of some sort, but it all seems so...normal.

"I don't invite a lot of people here," he admits. "I have an apartment downtown that I use for entertaining, but this is my home."

And I'm one of the lucky few to see it.

He leads me down a narrow hallway to an average kitchen with average appliances, gesturing for me to take a seat at the island in the center of the room.

"Tea? Or water? Or...well, anything really," he offers, leaning against the counter across from me.

"Water is fine," I say, watching him push himself up and reach for a glass in a cabinet above the sink. He gets the water from a dispenser built into the refrigerator door and slides it to me.

"Too good for the tap?" I tease and he only rolls his eyes, turning on the stove.

It's all very normal, as if we're just two regular people spending time together.

The thought almost makes me laugh.

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Edward makes us grilled cheese sandwiches and we eat them on opposite ends of his couch in the living room. As I finish, I start to wander, my eyes glued to the bookshelves that line the far wall. He's got books, so many books, on history and philosophy and short story collections, but what catches my eye more are the snow globes.

"You collect snow globes," I say in a surprised sigh.

Because what the fuck.

_Edward Cullen-the Vigilante- _collects _fucking snow globes._

His cheeks flush as he says, "I wouldn't call this collection my idea. My mom used to travel all over the place when I was younger, doing humanitarian work and stuff like that, and she always brought me back one of those."

I pick up one from Vienna and shake it, watching the flakes of faux snow cover the intricate roof of a cathedral.

"Did you ever get to go with her?"

He's beside me when he answers, taking the snow globe from me and placing it back on the shelf. "Sometimes, on school breaks mostly. She wanted me to have a normal life. As normal as I could have considering...everything."

"Was she...was she a Real One, too?"

Edward nods. "They both were."

My brows knit together, a question rising in my throat that is surely inappropriate but I ask it anyway.

"If they were Real Ones, how did a car accident kill them?"

His gaze rises to meet mine and his eyes begin to brighten with grief and rage.

"A car accident wasn't what killed them," he says lowly. "They were murdered."

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	12. Chapter 12

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The car accident that killed Carlisle and Esme Cullen was so catastrophic that they could only be identified by dental records. The car had essentially exploded on impact as it crashed through a guardrail and falling 80 feet below. It had taken more than a day to find their scattered, charred remains.

I read article after article at work Monday, trying to piece together what really happened. It was a rainy night and they were driving to their house outside of the city. Their son was home, studying for his final exams, and they were anxious to get back to him, witnesses say. They were coming from a fundraiser downtown and everything about them seemed normal. The whole night felt very routine.

Until, you know, it wasn't.

The worst part of searching through all these articles are the pictures of eighteen year old Edward in a black suit, looking absolutely and completely _broken_ at their funeral. It's obvious that he had been crying and hadn't slept. Rosalie Hale is next to him, eyes red, clutching a tissue in one hand and Edward's sleeve in the other.

My heart aches for him, so intensely that it's hard to take in a full breath. I know what it's like to bury a parent. To be alone and lost in the world after they're gone.

It makes me wish I'd found him sooner.

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I download a police scanner app on my phone, listening to where Edward might be headed next when the moon is high in the sky.

_Domestic disturbance at …_

_….fire at 6th street…_

_10-71 at 8th and High…_

It's hard to hear all these terrible things happening around me and doing absolutely nothing about any of it.

I turn the scanner off, sick of it and sick of myself, as I collapse into bed, eyes trained on the ceiling above me.

A shadow is cast there, from outside my window. A silhouette of a human figure.

When I twist to look outside, it swiftly vanishes.

"Edward?" I say aloud as if he can hear me.

As if it's him, and not a stranger skulking outside of my apartment.

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"I haven't seen you for a while," Alice says as I enter the library one night after work. "I'll admit that I've been worried."

She's so pregnant and swollen and I feel bad that she's been thinking about me at all.

"Sorry," I tell her. "I've just been busy, I guess. I wanted to renew these."

She scans the books on the Real Ones, eyeing me strangely.

"You look different."

"Oh?"

"Not in a bad way," she adds quickly.

"That's good," I say with a smile, trying to ease the weirdness that has settled around us.

"Are you hanging around for a bit?" she asks, changing the subject. I nod. Edward is out in the city somewhere and I know that if I'm at home, I'm just going to listen to the police scanner and worry about him all night.

Instead, I settle into a chair on the third floor near a window with my books, trying to distract myself with my obsessive research on the man who never leaves my mind.

It's hard to focus, though. I think that my senses had been so dulled with all the medication, the fog kind of kept distractions away. Now though, on half doses of everything, I'm hyper aware of every sound and bit of movement.

Like the man pacing the shelves nearby, looking for a book with no sense of urgency. He's merely strolling, his pants swishing with every step.

It's bothering me enough that I move to another section of the library, closer to the circulation desk where Alice is scrolling on her computer silently.

It takes about five minutes for the man to grab a newspaper off a table without looking at it and settle into a chair near mine.

And this is when I start to feel nervous.

_There are people out there who would do terrible things to you because of what you mean to me_, Edward had said the other day, and maybe I'm being paranoid, but this average looking man in nondescript clothes is totally freaking me out.

I tell Alice goodbye and head outside, walking up the block, crossing the street and then heading back down towards the library again.

The man is behind me, but keeping himself at a distance.

"You know," I say, my voice rising in the quiet darkness, shaking just a little. "If you're trying to follow me without me knowing about it, you're doing a piss poor job."

He says nothing, just continues to tail me as I go back to the library. This time, he has the sense to at least loiter outside.

"Is he bothering you?" Alice asks quietly, standing up from her desk. "I can call security or even the cops."

I almost say no, but there is real fear crashing over me at the thought of him following me home and then I remember the shadow outside of my window.

I realize that they might already know where I live. Where I work. Where I go.

Panic bubbles in my throat as I choke out a _yes_.

Alice is dialing when there's a commotion outside, and the man who has been following me is suddenly sprawled out on the sidewalk, unconscious.

Edward is there, masked and clenching his fists, as he steps over the man and makes his way into the lobby.

I nearly cry at the sight of him, at his ragged breathing and wild eyes.

"Let's go," he growls and I don't even look back at Alice as I move to join him.

"Bella?" she calls from behind me.

"I'll see you later," I respond, waving a shaking hand over my shoulder. Edward tosses me a helmet and gestures for me to get on his bike.

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	13. Chapter 13

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We don't speak as we fly down the streets, weaving in and out of traffic far too quickly, the wind pulling at my sweater and tugging at the ends of my hair, the warmth of his body burning against mine. Edward takes a sharp turn down an alley and pulls up near a garage door before turning off the ignition. He enters a code on his watch and the door starts to raise. He doesn't turn to me until the door is shut behind us and I'm trying to take in the room despite it being cloaked in pitch darkness, save for the burning glow of Edward's eyes.

"Are you okay?" His hands are wrapping around my elbows, pulling me closer.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just a little freaked out. How did you…"

"I don't know," he admits. "I just knew you were scared and had to find you. It was instinct."

"I think they know where I live," I tell him quietly. "Whoever _they_ are."

"Fuck. Fuckfuck_fuck_."

And then he's stepping away from me, swallowed by the darkness of the room, muttering to himself.

"I'm so fucking stupid, I _knew_ this would happen and I let myself do this anyway. God_dammit_."

Metal clangs against the floor as if he's kicked something out of his way.

"Edward?" I ask softly, tentatively. "It's okay, really. I'm sure it was nothing."

And I know that it _wasn't_ nothing, but if he leaves me, if he cuts off contact with me...I can't even begin to think about it.

I'd say anything to make him stay.

"Seriously," I say louder now. "I'm fine, I can just go home and I'll see you at work tomorrow and-"

He's in front of me in an instant.

"If you think I'm letting you out of my sight _now_, you're absolutely insane."

I fight an inappropriately giddy smile, because even though it seems like the last thing he wants is me hanging around, he _has to let me stay_.

"Stop being so happy about this. These people could _kill__ you_," he seethes.

"I'm not," I say too quickly. "What do we do now?"

He lets out a long suffering sigh before he says, "We'll go home."

I follow him through the dark, down a seemingly never ending hallway. As we go, he peels off his mask and his shirt and I wish more than anything in this moment that I had his incredible eyesight. By the time we reach a heavy metal door, he's balled up the discarded clothing and stuffed it in his back pocket. I squint into the bright light of the room beyond the door, eyes adjusting slowly to watch the way the muscles in his back flex as he moves ahead of me to grab a clean shirt off a shelf.

"What is this place?" I ask, taking in the tiny room. Empty, save for some gray t-shirts on shelves and a small first aid kit.

"Kind of like a halfway point. I can't go straight home after doing...Vigilante things."

"Ah," is all I can think to say.

We go down another long, dark hallway that spits us out onto a street three blocks from where we started. Edward pulls a key out of his pocket, and an average looking sedan flashes its lights.

"Don't look so surprised," he smirks, noticing my raised eyebrows. "This is just the decoy. I'll show you my real car collection someday."

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We go back to his house on the quiet suburban street and I stand awkwardly in his living room as he checks to make sure we haven't been followed and that the house is locked up with his fancy security system.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "I've got a frozen pizza I can bake."

Startled laughter escapes me and a confused smile forms on his perfect mouth.

"What?" he asks and I shake my head.

"You just keep surprising me," I tell him. I guess I always imagined Edward Cullen eating steak and caviar for every meal, not stuff I ate growing up.

As he's cooking, I explore the kitchen, finding a wine rack near the table, the bottles

gathering dust .

"These look fancy," I observe, fingering a Bordeaux from 2005.

"They're all award winners," he says like it's embarrassing. "My friend, Rosalie, buys one for me for my birthday every year."

"You don't drink them," I say and he laughs.

"Drinking wine alone at home always seems depressing," he admits. "Like I said, I don't really bring anyone here. Do you want some?"

"While you tell me what the hell is going on? Yeah, it might help."

I might be grinning, but he is not.

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	14. Chapter 14

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Over frozen pizza and expensive wine, Edward begins to try to explain everything and I try not to stare at the way his lips redden with every sip.

"I don't know who exactly is following you," he admits. "It could be some asshole I helped put away out for revenge...or it could be the Faction."

"The Faction?"

"They're an international terrorist group. And they're trying to recruit Real Ones. The ones they can't recruit, they eliminate."

"Wait what? Slow down. This doesn't make any sense."

"It's a lot to explain," he sighs. "Essentially, if a Real One won't join them, they refuse to let them stand against them in the future. Better to destroy the threat."

"Holy shit. What do they want with _me?_"

He looks away, expression stormy. "Because I won't join them. And they're desperate. Because there aren't many like me left. They need me alive."

"And?"

"_And_, Bella, they want to use you as leverage."

"Why the fuck would they want to do that?" My mind is racing almost as fast as my heart. I feel like I can't catch my breath.

Then Edward's hand is on my knee, his wine glass abandoned on the coffee table, and I feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust.

"Because they know I would do _anything_ to keep you safe."

"That's so stupid, Edward, why would you-"

I'm cut off by the soft press of his mouth on mine, hesitant as his lips begin to move with my own. There aren't words to describe that chaste kiss-none that would do it justice. That feeling of wholeness, of rightness, of comfort, of lust.

It's as if everything I've ever done in my life has been leading to this moment.

When he breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead on mine, and lets out a shaky breath.

"_That_ is why. Do you...do you feel it, too?"

The word _yes_ leaves me in a sigh and my lips find his once more, this time more insistent, the kiss deeper and more desperate. One of his hands tangles in the hair at the base of my neck while the other grips my hip, pulling me closer. I feel as if my skin is the only thing keeping me together and I'm twisting his shirt in my fists, wishing more than anything for there to be nothing at all as a barrier between us.

He's the one to pull away again, his eyes glowing intensely green and focused on the way my breaths come close to panting.

"Why'd you stop?" I gasp, which brings a smirk to his beautiful, swollen mouth.

"It's getting late," he says. "We both have to appear...normal. I have a secret identity to

uphold, you know. And what I want to do to you would take _all. Night. Long. _We'd never make it to the office."

My responding _gulp_ is comical enough to make him laugh.

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	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry for the delay! Real life is kicking my ass to hell and back.**

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Edward makes me sleep in his bed, though he insists that he can take the floor-either in the room or right outside the door. His paranoia would be annoying if I wasn't so desperate for him to be near me.

I tell him that I would feel safest if he was in bed next to me, my voice dropping an octave in an attempt to sound sexy. He lets out one of his signature long-suffering sighs and tosses me one of his t-shirts and a pair of athletic shorts before he shows me where the bathroom is.

There's a new toothbrush in a box on the sink and I'm struck by how _clean_ the bathroom is. Nothing out of place, no gross boy-lives-here beard hair all over the sink.

"Do you have a maid?" I call through the closed door as I tug the shirt over my head.

"No," he says back, his voice muffled. "Why?"

"Just weirdly clean," I tell him, tugging the door open. He's sitting on the bed in a pair of plaid pajama pants and a gray t-shirt, leaning back on his hands.

"No it isn't," he says, his stare lingering on my bare legs.

"The shorts are way too big," I explain with a blush. The shirt is long enough that there's nothing scandalous showing at least.

He swallows hard and gets off the bed, making his way to a pile of blankets on the floor.

"You can sleep up here!" I say, climbing into bed. It's so soft, like I'm sitting on a cloud. I'm already drifting.

"No, I can't," he says softly, flicking the light off. "Goodnight, Bella."

"Goodnight, Edward."

**X**

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"Hello?" I call out down the stairs. The morning light is streaming in the front windows and someone is opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen. "Edward?"

There's a _clack clack clack _of heels across the wood floor of the hallway and then Rosalie Hale is standing at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

And that's when I realize I'm still in Edward's t-shirt and nothing else.

"Good morning," she says. "I was told to bring clothes for you, but was not informed how petite you are. Hopefully these aren't too big." She reaches for a garment bag hanging on the railing.

"What-what are you doing here? Where's Edward?"

"He's already at work. I've been tasked with bringing you in separately so as not to cause a tabloid shirt storm."

"Do you...do that a lot?"

Rosalie smirks and replies, "No, I can't say that I do."

**X**

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Rosalie, it turns out, is pretty cool. Her outward appearance is prim and powerful but she curses like a sailor and devours a breakfast sandwich in less than a minute. The clothes she brought are definitely too big, but not overwhelmingly so.

"So...you work for Cheney, right?" Rosalie asks as silence gathers heavily around us while I pick at my own breakfast.

"I do. You're an attorney, right?"

"Yeah, I work a lot on negotiations. Cheney seems like a piece of shit. Is he?"

I stifle my surprised laugh and say, "I mean...yeah. He really is."

Rosalie is parked in the garage, her red BMW has windows tinted so much that I can't even see inside of it.

"I like my privacy," she says, noticing my stare and unlocking the car. "Especially leaving Edward's place, though the media hasn't really figured out that he has this place."

"Really?"

"Edward is fiercely private and obnoxiously sneaky. It took them years to figure out he wasn't living at his parents' place. They still haven't figured out that his apartment in the city isn't his real home base."

"And you don't find that strange?" I pry, trying to figure out just how much she actually knows while we begin to back out of the garage.

She shrugs and replies, "He's always been like that. I think growing up in the spotlight with his parents and then...everything after...made it worse. He's such a hermit, I can never get him to do anything or go anywhere. He always says he already has plans but I am his like, only friend. Until now, I suppose." She throws me a sidelong glance as we make our way through the streets. I immediately turn bright red.

"Spill it," she urges. "What is going on with you two? The first I've ever heard of you was this morning and he would not stop asking me to be _nice _to you."

"Oh my god," I groan, dropping my head into my hands.

"Stop, it was so cute," she gushes. "He was so concerned I'm surprised he even managed to leave without you this morning."

"We're just friends," I lie. Because while we might not be dating or in love or whatever, _friends_ feels wrong as it rolls off my tongue.

"Mmhmm, whatever. Fine, don't tell me," she concedes as if she is not actually going to drop it at all.

**X**

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	16. Chapter 16

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Jessica eyes my messy bun and overtly expensive clothes with suspicion, but doesn't say anything to me as I sit down at my desk and check my email. Between the endless emails from people trying to get ahold of Cheney, there is one from Edward.

_I hope you slept well last night, and that Rosalie was not rude to you in any way this morning. She can be abrasive at times. I wanted to invite you up to my office for lunch today at 12:30._

The formality in message makes me grin, and I want to rush up to see him _right this second_.

_I'll be there_, I send back quickly.

"Someone's in a good mood," Jessica mutters, staring at her computer screen with disdain.

I ignore her.

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"How was your morning?" Edward asks as he lets me into his office, his secretary already at lunch.

"No complaints," I say. "Rosalie is cool."

He laughs softly and says, "I'm glad you think so. She keeps hounding me about you."

I bypass the chairs scattered around his office and sit myself on his desk. It's a huge, dark wood monster that I'm sure cost more than my life.

"What about me?" I hedge, glancing around at the generic looking art on the walls. I'm surprised at the lack of windows-just one small square of sky behind the desk.

He shrugs, closing the gap between us so that my knees are touching his thighs.

"Wanting to know who you are. Why you're sleeping at my place. If it's serious." His hands make their way to my hips, rubbing slow, lazy circles. My legs spread and I'm mentally begging him to press himself against me.

When he does, I make the most embarrassing noise, almost like a _mewl_ and his responding smirk makes me blush. I can't take it anymore, I tug on his tie until his mouth meets mine. This kiss is hungrier than the last one, deeper and more urgent.I wish and wish that our souls matched. I want them to. I would rather be a hunted Real One than someone who isn't right for him in every possible way.

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Edward doesn't save the city tonight, instead he follows me to my apartment in his Vigilante outfit so I can collect some of my things-mainly my meds.

The room feels off when I step inside, not as stale as it should be from my absence. I grab a trash bag from the kitchen and start to fill it with some essentials. Meds, extra socks. I'm grabbing my phone charger from next to my bed when I realize the Real Ones books are gone, along with my pillowcase.

"What the fuck," I mutter, backing away. The only reason I can think of in terms of _why the hell they would need my pillowcase _is that they needed it for my _scent_.

When I see that my toothbrush is gone, too, my blood freezes in my veins.

Because now they have my DNA.

And I have no idea _why_.

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	17. Chapter 17

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We make our way back to Edward's house in tense silence. After I'd explained what was missing from my apartment, he'd gone quiet, but I can feel him practically vibrating with rage and nerves next to me.

I don't know why, but I feel as if I've done something wrong, that he's angry at me though I know he really isn't.

"I'm sorry," I murmur because I don't know what else to say and I want him to feel better. He lets out a low, bitter laugh.

"_I'm_ sorry. I dragged you into this. This is all my fucking fault."

"No it isn't," I insist, reaching for his hand. He flinches at the contact but his fingers grip mine so tight it hurts.

**X  
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He lets me pick another bottle of wine to have with dinner, this one from the 90s, and he laughs at me despite his sour mood.

"I've never seen anyone so excited about wine," he says. I flush, embarrassed because I'm sure everyone he knows drinks fancy wine all the time.

"I'm not allowed to drink," I explain. "Or, I haven't been. Because of all the medication. This is all new to me."

"Medication?"

I pull my pill divider out of my bag and open it up, looking at all the different colored capsules as Edward comes up beside me.

"I'm getting off of them though," I explain. "They're not really working anymore."

He observes them, then reaches for a vitamin and flinches when his hand makes contact.

"What?" His intense reaction throws me.

"What is this?" he breathes, brows pulled together in confusion. "Why are you taking _this_?"

"It's just a B-Complex," I say with a scoff because he's acting totally insane.

"No, it isn't," he insists. "There's so much _iron _in this."

"What, like a supplement?"

He breaks the capsule open and says, "no, not at all."

The black powder coats the countertop and I frown at him while he digs through drawers, finally pulling out what looks to be a magnet.

As he raises it above the contents of the pill, most of the dust connects to it.

Too much of it.

"What the _fuck_."

"Bella, _why are you taking this?_"

"I don't know!" I shriek. "It's supposed to be a B-Complex! My doctor put me on it."

"When?"

"I don't know, it's been forever. Since I was eight maybe?"

"And have you always used the same pharmacy?"

"I guess? I've always gone to Newton's. Why the fuck would they be giving me _metal shavings_?"

"I can only guess," he muses grimly, sweeping the mess off the counter and into the trash.

**X**

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_It is said that iron is the most dangerous to Real Ones, mostly because it impedes their healing process. Some postulate that there are properties of the element that put a damper on their supernatural abilities, though no one knows for certain. It is thought that the amount of iron already in blood is the only thing keeping them on this plane of reality-it grounds them, as if it is a tether to humanity. Iron is the only thing that can pierce their skin. _

_ It has been noted that some humans throughout history have introduced iron to their wardrobes, homes, and even diets in an attempt to keep Real Ones away, as the element itself creates a sort of protective field. _

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"My mom was human," I insist. "My dad was never in the picture, but he was human, too."

"Are you sure?" Edward asks, putting vegetables onto my plate. I'm not hungry. Not when he thinks I might be a Real One, too.

"Yes," I say again. "If anything, maybe she was just...paranoid. She was always paranoid. Like they used to do in the middle ages or whatever."

"What, trying to keep Real Ones away from you?"

"I guess. That's the only explanation that makes sense," I insist.

"Is it?"

I scramble to the bathroom, feeling a panic attack building, and I splash cold water on my face to try to calm my ragged breathing before slumping against the door.

"Think about it, Bella," his muffled voice comes from the other side of the door. "Has anything ever happened that felt...off?"

I'm overwhelmed with feelings, flashes of pain and fear and darkness. The memories aren't there, not really, they're lost the haze that comes with repressing _everything_.

"I don't know," I cry, voice cracking into sobs. "I can't remember."

And as the uncertainty and anxiety crash over me, threatening to pull me completely under, Edward's opening the door, holding me tightly until it passes.

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	18. Chapter 18

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Sleep is hard to find, my heart races as I lay in Edward's bed. He's downstairs somewhere, researching and pacing angrily about who could be targeting me.

And how to make them stop.

I try to make myself think of anything else, but it's useless.

"Do your calming exercises," my mom would tell me if she was here. "Try those breathing techniques."

I wonder if this is a side effect of coming off the anxiety meds, but then again, did I really need them anyway?

I give up and start to make my way to the living room, but I notice the door at the other end of the hall is cracked open, moonlight illuminating the dark, hardwood floor.

It's a library. Or storage space. It's really hard to tell, because while there are books filling the room, they are kept in piles scattered haphazardly and stacked perilously high. I wind through the room, glancing at titles as I pass by, curious as to what Edward Cullen likes to read. _War and Peace_ is propped up by a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson. A tattered copy of _The Hobbit_ leans against a stack of old encyclopedias. Gold leafing catches my eye as I turn toward the window, practically glowing in the moonlight.

_Myths and Stories of the Real Ones_.

I nearly knock the whole pile over in my attempt to grab the leatherbound book, heart racing in anticipation. I've never come across this in all my scouring of the public libraries and secondhand bookstores.

It's a beautiful book, with color illustrations, and I'm starting to realize that it may be a one of a kind. It looks hand printed. The art feels as if it was made directly on the page. I drag my finger gently across an image of a woman with brightly glowing eyes, spear in her hand and a determined set to her jaw.

_The Warrior Queen, Amal_.

I'm careful as I flip through the pages, not wanting to ruin anything. It's fascinating, the creation myths especially because there are so many of them. It's as if no one could ever agree if Real Ones came from space or were blessed by different gods or if they themselves are gods. I read about armies and cunning creatures and brave fighters. Philosophers, magic makers, apocalyptic predictions. Children's fables and poetic tales of light.

There is one myth, however, that chokes the breath from my lungs and forces me out of the room entirely, the book shut tightly and hidden away from where I'd originally found it.

_The Coming of the True Dark. _

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I find Edward downstairs, my hands shaking and brain exhausted. He's got a duffle bag open in front of him and he's loading it with clothes and knives and bottles of water.

"What are you doing?" I ask, and he doesn't appear startled by my sudden appearance. I'll bet he was listening to my toss and turn and sigh above him.

"We're leaving," he says. "As soon as possible. I'm getting us out of the city."

"Where are we going?" My voice is barely there. Edward's moving so quickly, so frantically, it distracts my racing mind and trembling limbs.

"That's what I've been trying to figure out. I've been going through some files my dad's lawyer had finally gotten digitized and I think there's a safehouse about three hours from here."

"A safehouse? Jesus, this feels like some FBI shit." He huffs a short laugh.

"It's really just an abandoned farm, but I'm sure there's some sort of underground bunker. My parents were survivalists, in a way."

"Ready for the end of the world?"

"Their world, maybe."

So, we pack. As quickly as possible.

"This is insane," I croak as Edward makes sure I'm buckled into a black sedan that I've never seen before. Everything is happening so fast, I can't catch my breath, I can't-

His mouth is on mine so suddenly that I gasp, with the warmth of his lips pressed against my own, some of that fear starts to melt. When he pulls away, he cups my cheek in his hand, eyes blazing, and says, "I know this is a lot, but we'll be okay. I won't let anything happen to you. Okay?"

"Okay," I murmur, still kind of dazed from the kiss. I wonder if it will always feel like that or if the feeling will fade with time.

I wonder if we'll have enough time for that to even happen.

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I watch the lights of the city as we leave. I'd spent so much time looking at it from above, I forgot what it looks like from a distance. The way the lights fade as the night begins to give way to the sunrise, how the buildings start to shrink and I can see the world surrounding it, a little concrete island in a flat countryside.

Once the city is gone completely from view, I allow myself to look forward, to see the fields and trees and road stretching unendingly before us, the sky so large and uninterrupted. I feel Edward's hand on my knee, his grip loosening with every mile we put between us and danger.

I'm close to finally, _finally_ drifting to sleep when I'm jerked forward, tires squealing beneath us, as we take in the sight before us.

Three SUVs blocking the road.

Too many guns to count, pointed right at us.

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End file.
